Angel in Scarlet (62 page)

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” I told her.

Eppie didn't reply. She toyed with her hands in her lap, her brown eyes thoughtful. I could tell she was remembering earlier days.

“I—I guess we both did pretty well for ourselves, Angie,” she said after a while. “I got Jamie McCarry—all the other girls were after him, but I was the one who got him, and he's still as handsome as ever. I've got my four kids and a nice house and a lot of pretty things—you noticed my plates, didn't you? Jamie bought 'em for me one at a time. And you—you became a Lady. Who'd of thought it when we were girls?”

“Who indeed,” I said. “I'm so glad you're happy, Eppie.”

“Me, I wasn't ever ambitious like you. I wasn't ever special, never wanted to set the world on its ear. You were always different, Angie. I knew it way back then when we were gadding about the village and giggling at the boys. You had something. Didn't surprise me at all when you became a famous actress in London. Didn't surprise me when you married Lord Meredith, either. He always had an eye for you. Remember that time we were sitting in the square and he came riding by on his horse and tried to get you to go off with him and you were so lippy?”

“I remember.”

“Funny how people change,” she said. “He was something back then, handsome as a god and randy as a ram, only one thing on his mind. And he grows up to be such a fine man, sober and fair-minded, admired by everyone. Life sure is full of surprises, isn't it?”

“It is indeed,” I replied.

I left Eppie's a short while later and, without really planning to do so, circled around the village and rode past the square with its sun-warmed benches and rusty cannon, then came to the weathered old church, its pale tan stone walls brushed with shadow from the oaks, its tarnished copper spire soaring up toward the pale blue-gray October sky. I dismounted and opened the gate, moving into the churchyard. Several of the old white marble tombstones were toppling and covered with moss, but my father's was brand new, of the finest marble. Fresh pink flowers stood in the white marble vase. Clinton had ordered the new tombstone, had given instructions that fresh flowers were to be placed on the grave each week. He had done all this without consulting me, and I had been deeply touched. Clinton hadn't known my father, but he knew his reputation and knew that we had been very close.

Late morning sunlight slanted through the boughs of the oaks, making patterns on the ground, flecks of sunshine alternating with shadow. I stood beside the grave for a long time in silent communion, remembering. Once, a long time ago, I had vowed that I would make my father proud of me, and in my heart I knew that he would indeed be proud of me now. He would be proud of Clinton, too, pleased that I had married so fine a man. The title, the wealth wouldn't have impressed him, but the man and his integrity would have had his approval. I had been dubious of this marriage, had hesitated quite some time before giving Clinton my answer, afraid I might be making a dreadful mistake, but I knew now my decision to say yes was the wisest I had ever made.

Bidding my father a silent farewell, I left the churchyard, mounted Cynara and rode home to join my husband for lunch.

Work on the ballroom was completely finished by the first of November and Adam and the workmen departed, the architect declaring himself more than satisfied with the job he had done on Greystone Hall. Five days later three dozen beautifully embossed invitations were mailed to all the neighboring gentry and a number of Clinton's aristocratic friends, requesting their presence at a grand ball to be held at Greystone Hall on the evening of November fifteenth. Mrs. Rigby and her staff were in a positive flurry, making preparations, and Henri and staff were in a flurry, too, planning the menu, ordering foodstuffs. Twelve cases of the finest champagne were delivered, stored in the wine cellar, and on the morning of the fifteenth three lorries arrived from the hothouses in the next county, loaded with literally thousands of white and salmon pink roses and huge sheaves of white fern as delicate as lace, with four florists to see to the arrangements. Everything was in chaos, it seemed. Nothing would possibly be ready in time.

Clinton was completely unperturbed at breakfast, enjoying his eggs and bacon, having an extra piece of toast spread with strawberry preserves. I was a mass of nerves, drinking cup after cup of black coffee and working myself into a state almost as bad as those on opening nights. He calmly informed me that there was nothing for me to worry about, the ball would be a huge success, and then he left to go supervise the repair of a stone fence in one of the fields. That didn't help at all. The house was bustling with activity, the silver being polished, the Sevres china being washed, flowers being arranged, dozens of last minute tasks being seen to. I thought I just might possibly go mad.

The day seemed interminable. Clinton returned for lunch and told me all about mending the fence and said the men had done a damned fine job and I told him that was absolutely marvelous. He smiled at my sarcasm and told me to relax, and then he suggested I take a nice long nap so that I would be fresh and lovely for our guests. I didn't throw the sugar bowl at him, staying my hand just in time. My dear husband would never know just how close he came to being crowned. He finished his meal, said he had to spend the rest of the afternoon in his office and, coming around the table to give me a kiss on the brow, left the room. Oh, he was very supportive, very understanding, going blithely about his business when I was on the verge of a nervous collapse. I stared at my untouched crabmeat salad with loathing and pushed it aside. Hours to fill, and nothing for me to do. Everything was under perfect control Mrs. Rigby assured me as she hurried past me in the hall a few minutes later. The florists were almost finished with the arrangements and the footmen were setting up the small gilt chairs around the ballroom. She bustled on down the hall, taffeta skirts crackling, and I moved glumly up the stairs.

The musicians arrived at four-thirty and began to set up their stands and tune their instruments in the ballroom. In three hours our first guests would begin to arrive. Holding back the panic that threatened to grip me, I ordered a bath and luxuriated in the hot, perfumed water and washed my hair, drying it with a fluffy towel. Wearing only my thin pale violet silk petticoat, I spent almost an hour with my hair, brushing it until it gleamed like glossy chestnut silk, pulling it away from my face, arranging it in an elaborate roll in back, a simple, elegant style that, I fancied, made me look older and more dignified. I used cosmetics sparingly, applying a pale pink to my lips, a mere suggestion of lighter pink blush to my high cheekbones, rubbing a subtle mauve shadow onto my lids. The effect was natural, not at all theatrical. If they expected to meet a gaudy, painted actress, they were due a surprise.

Polly, my personal maid, came in to help me with the gown. A shy lass of seventeen with long flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes, she exclaimed in wonder at the gown and said she'd never seen anything so beautiful. It had arrived from London a week ago, one of Dottie's loveliest creations designed especially for the ball. It was a deep violet-blue velvet, the cloth rich and sumptuous, making a soft rustling sound as I put it on. Polly fastened it up in back, deftly hooking the tiny, invisible hooks, and I stood before the mirror, examining myself with a critical eye. The short, narrow sleeves were worn off the shoulder, and the form-fitting bodice was cut low, though not as extreme as fashion decreed. The waist was snug, the deep violet-blue skirt parting in draped panels to display an underskirt of watered gray silk with narrow violet stripes. It was a gorgeous gown, tasteful and demure yet absolutely spectacular.

“You look a vision, Milady,” Polly said in an awed voice.

“Thank you, Polly. You may go now.”

Polly bobbed a curtsy and left. I fetched my jewel box and took out the necklace Clinton had given me in London. The diamonds and sapphires seemed to vibrate with shimmering life as I fastened the necklace around my neck. Dottie had selected a velvet only a few shades deeper than the sapphires, and the necklace beautifully complemented the gown. I vividly remembered that evening Lord Clinton Meredith had come back into my life, remembered the gorgeous pink roses and my reluctance to accept this gift. Only eight months ago, that was, and now I was Lady Meredith and waiting in terror to meet his friends and aristocratic neighbors. Gazing into the mirror, I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. You're an actress, Angela, I reminded myself, and you're going to carry it off with perfect aplomb. You're going to hold your head high and be gracious and charming and every inch a lady and if they don't like you they can all go sod themselves.

“Thinking of me?” Clinton inquired.

He walked into the room, looking positively dazzling in black velvet knee breeches and frock coat and a white satin vest with narrow black stripes, delicate lace cascading from his throat and spilling over his wrists. His stockings were of fine white silk, and diamond buckles gleamed on his black leather pumps. His pale blond hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his gray eyes were full of fond amusement. It was hard to believe that he had been working most of the day.

“Actually, I wasn't,” I said. “I was thinking of our guests.”

“Still nervous?”

“Terrified,” I confessed.

“They're going to love you,” he told me.

“I'll probably make a dozen dreadful faux pas. I'll probably stumble and fall flat on my face. This is worse than any opening night I've ever had. I think I may just run away.”

“No, you won't. You'll charm them one and all. Before the night is over you'll have the haughtiest duchess eating out of your hand.”

“Will there be haughty duchesses?”

“At least a brace of 'em. Frightful old dragons, breathing real fire. I forgot to warn you about 'em.”

“You're teasing,” I said sulkily.

“And you're being a perfect ninny, my darling.”

“How—how do I look?” I asked.

Clinton tilted his head to one side, studying me with narrowed eyes. “I suppose you'll do,” he said, frowning. “There—uh—there seems to be something missing, though.”

“Something missing?” I was puzzled.

He studied me for a moment longer, the frown still creasing his brow, and then, light dawning, he snapped his fingers and told me he'd be right back. I frowned myself as he darted out of the room. He returned a few moments later, a merry grin on his lips and a large white leather box in his hand. Making an exaggerated bow, he handed the box to me, and I opened it to discover a gleaming pair of diamond and sapphire earrings and a magnificent silver wire spray, each curving wire studded with diamonds and sapphires. The diamonds had a violet-white shimmer, and the sapphires were identical to those in the necklace, deep violet fires flashing within the indigo.

“Damn you,” I said. “Now I'm going to cry.”

“You don't like them?”

“I don't deserve them. I—I've never done anything to deserve a husband like you.”

Clinton smiled, pleased with my reaction. “I think I should be the judge of that,” he said.

“I
am
crying. It's going to spoil my face.”

I stepped to the mirror and blotted the silvery tear from my cheek with a white cloth. I wanted to sob, so moved was I, but I managed to control myself and face him with some semblance of composure. The smile was still curving on his beautifully chiseled pink lips. I went over to him and placed my hands on his shoulders and stood up on tiptoe and brushed those lips with my own. His arms curled around me, drawing me nearer, and my right hand rested on the back of his neck. After a few moments, most reluctantly, he drew back and eased me away.

“Let's not start anything we can't finish in five minutes,” he said amiably. “We have to go downstairs and greet our guests.”

“Damn the guests,” I murmured.

He smiled again, delighted. “Why don't you put on your new things,” he suggested. “The spray, I believe, goes on the side of your head. I was going to buy a tiara but tiaras are for plump dowagers. The jeweler assured me this hair piece would be quite the thing.”

Lifting the shimmering spray from its nest of white satin, I carefully secured it to the side of my head, just behind the temple, the silver wires curving up and around in a half circle, each wire studded with exquisite diamonds and sapphires blazing with fiery life. It went perfectly with my new coiffure, as did the pendant earrings I put on next. Clinton nodded his approval, and I felt another tear trailing down my cheek. He brushed it away and took my hand and led me out of the room.

“I feel something fluttering in my stomach,” I said.

“Nonsense.”

“I know now exactly how the early Christians felt as they were waiting to face the lions.”

Clinton chuckled quietly and led me down the curving white staircase Adam had recently installed. My velvet skirt rustled. A footman in gold and white livery and powdered wig stood at the foot of the staircase. Clinton asked him to fetch us some champagne, and he obliged, returning a few moments later with two slender crystal flutes on a tray. Clinton took them, nodded his thanks to the footman and handed me a flute. I sipped it gratefully, still feeling tremulous inside. It was seven twenty-five. Our first guests would be arriving at any moment.

“Ready?” Clinton inquired.

“I'd prefer to be shot.”

“I'm looking forward to showing you off,” he said. “I want everyone to see what a beautiful, charming, enchanting wife I have.”

I didn't reply. Clinton sipped his champagne, looking at me over the rim of the glass with fond smoky gray eyes. I straightened my shoulders, and suddenly the tremors were gone and I was filled with a steely resolve. I was going to carry it off. I was going to win over each and every one of them, for Clinton's sake. Although he pretended not to care that his peers had shunned him since our marriage, that there had been no calls, no invitations, I sensed that he was deeply disappointed, even hurt.